


Part II

by ramify



Series: One More Time with Feeling [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Cancer, Graduation, High School, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Mentions of Future Major Character Death, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramify/pseuds/ramify
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At this point we were just waiting.</p><p>Every cough had us jumping to Dean’s side, every shiver came with a blanket, and we held our breath each time he lost his balance. Dean was a ticking time bomb and every morning he opened his eyes was a damn blessing. He hated our coddling and he continued to brush us off with his sarcasm— <i>“I’m only dying. I don’t need each of you holding up a tissue every time I sneeze.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Part II

At this point we were just waiting.

 

Every cough had us jumping to Dean’s side, every shiver came with a blanket, and we held our breath each time he lost his balance. Dean was a ticking time bomb and every morning he opened his eyes was a damn blessing. He hated our coddling and he continued to brush us off with his sarcasm— _“I’m only dying. I don’t need each of you holding up a tissue every time I sneeze.”_

 

Dean was calm. He knew what was going to happen, knew that his time was limited, and he accepted it; or so it seemed. Dean continued to laugh as though nothing was wrong, and we certainly acted like it around him— but mom was still a lush; Dad was still a workaholic; and I couldn’t look at Dean without feeling like my whole world was about to collapse. Even though we never said anything, Dean assured us, time and time again, that everything would be okay.

 

We grew accustomed to the word, and we expected Dean’s gentle reassurance. Dean was our safeguard, the only thing holding us down during all of this, but we might as well have used a helium balloon as an anchor. The one who was helping us keep it together was the same one who would be leaving, and even though he acted strong, at night I could hear him. We all could.

 

He was broken, but we pretended we couldn’t hear his cries—and for what? Was it because we were selfish? Did we ignore his cries out of respect? I am not sure, but we all heard him and we did nothing. It was certainly selfish and we didn’t change until Cas spoke up. His voice was calm, but there was disappointment in his words; we could feel it seeping into our pours and it burned like acid. It hit us like a freight train, cracking our bones as the weight of our insecurities, our self-regard, and our pity came to light.

 

Dean had always been the anchor holding down our entire family; he was the one who tried his best to keep us together. When dad left on Christmas. When mom found out that dad had an illegitimate child. When I had gotten involved with Ruby and was shooting up. Dean had always been there, and he was always the one who pulled us back together—Dad ended up coming home with Dean, sporting a black eye and Dean’s knuckles were suspiciously bloody; Mom invited Adam over for Sunday dinners after an entire evening of talking to Dean; and I came clean to my parents about my addiction with Dean at my side the entire time, finally getting the help I needed.

 

Cas told us that it was our turn to be the anchor—that we had all been so self-absorbed in our premature mourning to even think about the one person who actually needed us. He demanded that we clean ourselves up; mom needed to stop drinking, dad needed to get his damn head out of his ass, and I needed to be present. With Cas’ help, we cleaned up well. Mom and I sought out God, while Dad worked with sheer will.

 

We ignored Dean’s protests, ignored that he was _fine_ because we knew he really wasn’t; Dean was getting worse with each day that passed. One night, I snuck into Dean’s room and curled up behind him while he cried. It was then that Dean finally admitted he was afraid.

 

“I don’t know what’s waiting for me, Sammy.”

 

I wanted to give him an answer, but I didn’t have one. “Nobody does.”

 

“I don’t want to leave you guys.” His voice broke at the confession, and it took nearly every ounce of my will power not to break down. Dean needed me, and I knew that if I were to break, he would be the one to end up consoling me.

 

“We don’t want you to leave either,” I hadn’t realized that I was crying, but I didn’t let it show in my voice, “but some really cool guy told me not too long ago that everything will be okay, and I am finally starting to believe him.”

 

“Bitch.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

Dean cried some more until he fell asleep in my arms; he felt so small and fragile, nothing like the big brother I had known once before. While asleep, his guard down, his voice had been silenced and if it were not for his soft snores, I would not have known he was there.

 

Mom was the one who finally approached the subject of school the following morning. Dean had a spill in the shower, and the family was in hysterics at the sight of the wound on the back of his head. She spoke calmly, gently dabbing the wound with a wet towel, as she suggested that Dean shouldn’t go. Dad agreed, and even I thought it wasn’t such a good idea. That’s when all Hell broke loose.

 

“You don’t think I can do it?”

 

“What? No, sweetie. I just worry.”

 

“But you said I shouldn’t go.”

 

“Dean, listen to your mother. You fell this morning. What if you hurt yourself at school? You didn’t want anyone at this school to know—no one would know to be careful.”

 

Dean was silent for a moment as he stared at his hands; his fingers were twitching. The silence was nearly deafening.

 

“Dean?” Mom asked quietly, afraid that if she spoke to loud it would break him.

 

Dean had mumbled something that we couldn’t hear.

 

“What was that, son?”

 

He rolled his eyes before speaking louder. “I want to graduate!”

 

“Honey, there are other ways.”

 

“Look, mom, I know I don’t have the best track record when it comes to school, but I want to graduate. And no, I don’t want to do it some other way—I want to walk. I can’t get married or have kids, but at least I can graduate. I figure I still got a few months left in me.”

 

I didn’t even realize I had been holding my breath; it was caught in my throat and I felt my heart crack. The reality of the situation was one again brought to light, and more things we hadn’t thought about were being brought to our attention each day.

 

When nobody spoke, Dean did. “Graduation is only a month away. I can hold out until then. I’ve been doing pretty good so far, and hey, I don’t even feel _that_ bad!”

 

That was a lie. Dean tried to soften the blow with a smile, but the cushion didn’t help. He was getting worse and a month was a long time—a very long time. Dean said he could _hold out_ , and that right there fucked me up. Those words—God they were real and Dean was going to die. Just when I am starting to get a grip on myself, the reality of the situation pulls me down to the ground with a sharp tug.

 

Our parents finally agreed, but under two conditions:

One, the teachers were to know about it.

Two, Dean would not go to school today.

 

My brother reluctantly agreed with the second condition, but was very vocal about his opinioned on the first. He was worried that the students would find out, but I told him that he had Cas—that the others didn’t mean anything; that Cas was genuine; that Cas, us, we were all that mattered. At that, Dean gave in with a weary sigh. There were tears in his eyes and his anxiety radiated off his skin, filling the room with tension; pulling like a rubber band and it was nearly ready to snap. I understood his fear—others would either pity or ridicule him.

 

Dean was right though; none of the teachers could seem to keep their mouths shut and the secret was out. There was guilt in everyone’s eyes and they struggled to find the right words to say, but what could they say? _We’re sorry_? _We didn’t know_? The students who made comments shied away from Dean whenever he passed; the teachers stopped picking on Dean, no longer calling on him when they knew he didn’t have the right answers; the counselors made terrible efforts in consoling—their solutions meant nothing to Dean, or me. You could almost hear them all think _“oh, it all makes sense now.”_

 

He was still crying at night, and I still pretended I didn’t notice when I snuck into his room. If I didn’t comment, Dean wouldn’t close himself off.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” I told him late one night.

 

“I do,” he answered, his voice quiet, shaky.

 

“We won’t think any less of you. We are proud of you as it is.”

 

“I know, I just… I gotta do this for myself.” He choked on his words and I waited, running my fingers through his hair. “It’s just… Sammy, you’ve always been the smart one, and I goofed off. I want to do this. I… I need a goal. I need something to look forward to—something other than dying. You know, Sammy?”

 

“Yeah, Dean. I get it.” I hated it, but I understood.

 

It was a long month, but Dean held strong, bumping his grades up from D’ to C’s with the help of me and Cas. Despite his accomplishments and pride in himself, rumors began to spread. They were sparse, but still present and ever spreading—rumors that Dean was lying, that he didn’t look _that_ sick, that he was faking to get out of going to school _despite_ the fact that he _was_ in school.

As if he were lying because he was still able to walk _somewhat_.

As if he were lying because he was still breathing _somewhat._

As if he were lying because he hadn’t dropped dead _yet_.

 

When Brian Wright came up to our table at lunch and asked why Dean still had hair because Brian _thought people with cancer didn’t have any hair_ , Dean’s face went red and he looked down at his lap. My brother tried to laugh it off, but the anger that split Cas’ smile into a scowl was terrifying. He shot up from his seat, grabbed the kid by his collar, and shoved his face onto the table; milk had gotten all over my books, spaghetti in Dean’s lap, a fruit cup flew onto the floor. The cafeteria’s noise came to low hush, only a few murmurs here and there, as everyone stared at our table. Perhaps they were just in it to see the fight, but I knew it was because

 

Cas had uncharacteristically acted out. Cas held his gaze, glaring, shooting daggers; it felt like forever before he finally spoke.

 

“Your comment was unnecessary,” he said, through gritted teeth.

 

“Cas, buddy. It’s okay.” _Okay. Okay._

 

Cas let the kid go when Dean had touched his arm and Brian just had to make a comment about _maybe it’s AIDS_. It only took one punch and the guy was out cold. With only a week left for the seniors, the comments, the rumors, they all came to a stop. There were only a few whispers here and there, but nothing hateful and otherwise peaceful—perhaps Dean _finally_ looked sick enough for them. Dean still hated that everyone treated him differently; he would have preferred their jokes to the walking on eggshells.

 

He fell again; he had hardly gotten out of bed before his legs gave way and he came crashing down to the floor. Mom got out the wheelchair we had been saving and Dean glared at it like it had personally offended him. And it had.

It meant that Dean was getting weak.

It meant there was no hope.

It meant that Dean couldn’t walk up the stairs and onto the platform to get his diploma—not without any help that is.

The real kicker was that he was too tired to argue.

 

Within the last few days before graduation, people became friendlier. They no longer avoided Dean, the rumors had disappeared as if they had never been, and they weren’t afraid. A group of girls had pushed Dean to his second period classroom, chatting the entire way about what Dean wanted to do after graduation. My stomach twisted at their forbidden question, but Dean burned bright, smiling as he told them he wanted to drive across the country before going to college; he had a specific route all planned out—he would see _the best America has to offer._ I was scared for their response, but the girls surprised me by encouraging him, telling him that it was a great idea and that everyone should do that at some point in their lives. They treated him like his illness wasn’t stopping him from doing anything, and that was _exactly_ what Dean wanted.

The day finally came, and God, the look on Dean’s face when he held his diploma was I all I ever needed to know that the past month was worth it. The audience had lit up with a roar when Dean’s name was called, and our classmates cheered as Cas pushed Dean to the steps. Dean struggled for a moment to stand up, swatting away at Cas’ offer for help, but once he stood, he strode up onto the steps with a swagger—a cockiness that, even from a distance, suggested he was perfectly healthy. He grabbed his diploma and held it high over his head. What a dork.

A relief washed over our house once school was over. Dean and I played video games and he read his comic books to me, like when we were younger. Mom made French toast in the morning and Dad gave us our first beer—at least we let him think that. Cas came over every day with a new book every week, and they listened to Dean’s crappy music while they read.

It was peaceful, and despite what was around the corner, we were happy.

**Author's Note:**

> plz reblog on [tumblr!](http://weeaboocas.tumblr.com/post/132588405149/one-more-time-with-feeling)


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